He lingered with pleasure on the lines, saying again the more delightful ones: Your feet on pads of silence . . . But now the knock had become persistent. He groaned and got out of bed. When he opened the door, he drew back in surprise. A girl was standing there, nestling against the wall.
She could not be more than fourteen, but her breasts were taut and large with ripeness. She had sleepy eyes, a husky voice and soft lips. Sango had often seen her hawking lobsters, a Molomo Street delicacy. Her deep croaky voice set his blood afire.
‘Doctor . . . Doctor . . .’ He was not a doctor, and only the devil’s temptress could tell him where she had got the idea, but it pleased him. He looked up and down the corridor and saw that no one was in sight. This was temptation. She pushed her breasts against the door.
Sango kept the tremor out of his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Doctor,’ she breathed, and cleared her throat. She made eyes at him. ‘Doctor, I heard you are going . . .’ Her bare smooth shoulders and rounded arms invited his fingers. He held back.
‘Now, girl, go to bed. Quick. All girls of your age are lying in their mother’s beds.’
He shut the door. ‘Phew!’
You who knock so secretly
Sidling up the door, your eyes in veils
Your feet on pads of silence . . .
He listened. She was still there. He could hear her moaning to be let in. He went to sleep still hearing her calling croakily, ‘Doctor . . .’ and brushing her hands against the door, ‘I want to tell you something. . . .’
6
That afternoon Sango began to search for new lodgings. He found little luck. After cycling miles and miles, he met Dele on the crest of a hill. He had not seen Dele since college days and now he found him virtually unchanged, carrying a Bible, smiling and shy.
‘Dele, I’m looking for a room,’ Sango told him when they had overcome their mutual surprise.
‘A room? Now let me see . . .’ He stroked his chin and looked thoughtful. ‘Would you like to live in this area?’
Sango looked around him, and saw the logs floating on the lagoon. Logs that would soon be loaded into cargo boats and sent on their journeys to Europe and America. Logs that trapped the still waters and made a happy breeding ground for mosquitoes and malaria.
‘I’m looking for a room, Dele, not an area!’
‘Then come along! I’m just back from the office. But we may be lucky enough to meet the man I want.’
Sango followed him and learnt that, as the time for the Town Council elections was very near, candidates were willing to consider any proposals that might win them votes. As it happened, the man they were going to see was an election candidate and might help them. He was also an intimate friend of his father’s. Dele pushed his bicycle and talked of old days.
So wrapped up were they in comparing notes that Dele overshot his mark and they had to wheel back to find the right door. Dele knocked. While they waited Sango had a glimpse of an expensive cap not unlike Lajide’s. But the man who wore it was much darker, stouter and more pleasantly disposed.
‘Dele, is that you? Ha, ha! Come in!’
Sango’s heart warmed towards the man. He was at a table littered with small cards, labels, posters, pamphlets. Sango could read the inscription on some of them:
YOUR CANDIDATE FOR ‘A’ WARD IS . . . VOTE FOR HIM: WE WILL DELIVER THE GOODS . . . OUR POLITICAL MANIFESTO . . . AFRICANIZATION OF THE CIVIL SERVICE . . . SELF-GOVERNMENT NOW . . . AWAY WITH EXPATRIATES
The words seemed to shout frantically from the very pages. On a large poster was a photograph of the candidate himself, looking dignified in his robes.
Dele said, ‘This is my friend, Amusa Sango. We were at school together, after which he went to teach for some time; now he is a journalist.’
‘How are you, Mr. Sango?’
They shook hands. It was a warm, confident hand, Sango thought. Dele smiled.
‘Yes, sir, as I was saying, he’s a journalist. I would like you to help him. Maybe he can write something good about you in the West African Sensation. You see, sir, he’s looking for a room. As a man who reads a lot, he would like a place that is not noisy; that’s why I have brought him to you. Because I know you can help him.’
Sango admired Dele’s acting. In his loose but well-cut English suit, he looked boyish. He spread his palms upwards, rolled his eyes, bent his head this way and that in an appealing manner. His gestures were expressive. One would think that Sango was not the one in need but Dele himself.
He paused now, his eyes focused on the election picture. To Sango he said: ‘He’s the candidate for your ward. The elections are coming on. He’s very busy as you can see.’
‘Yes,’ said the Councillor, beaming. ‘I pray I get in. My party fights for the people, for the poor. There are poor men in every tribe and race, therefore my party is the Universal Party. But my rivals!’ Here he snorted. ‘They’re out to line their own pockets! They’re out to capture all the highest posts. We must defeat them and have things our own way – for the people’s good.’
‘I think you’ll get in, all right, sir!’
‘It’s not so easy: the candidate for the other party is not sleeping. He says he stands for the workers – the liar! He tells them I am deceiving them, that I am an aristo. And he gives them money, so they believe him – that’s the worst of it! They do not know they are selling their freedom, their birthright, everything decent in them! Oh!’
‘He will not get in,’ Dele assured him. ‘We are voting for people, not parties. The British have given us a new constitution. It is for us to select the best men to work it. That is our first and last step towards self-government. You have done a lot for this area. Look at Grave Street. Two years ago, it was all swamp. Not a light anywhere. Now we have water, electricity . . .’
‘Oh yes! but when people pass along Grave Street, they don’t bother to think. Still, one does not have to wait for thanks. That’s a politician’s lot. Do the right and leave it at that; that’s my motto. And it gets things done.’
He rubbed his chin and beamed. He was pleased. His work was appreciated by the two young men. Sango thought guiltily of his assignment for the West African Sensation. But the politician would not come straight to the point.
‘I remember when I was a teacher some years ago, things were quite different.’
‘Quite so, sir.’
‘No African Education Officers, Principals . . . where would you find them? But now things are different. Yes, things are gradually passing into African hands. Soon all the power will be in our hands. It’s worth fighting for.’
‘You love politics, I can see that,’ Sango said.
‘Politics is life. Look at it now. After these elections, life will be different. With every election things change. And so it will go on changing, all the time, and one day we’ll get what we’re fighting for: complete autonomy!’
‘Things can’t be the same,’ Dele said.
‘And that’s politics. We want our own Government. They will decide what money you may have, what food you may eat; what hours you may sleep; what films you may see: all this is life. Politics is life. I like it.’
‘Politics is not for young men like ourselves. For you, it’s good. You worked for years under the British Government. Now you have retired. You have your pension. Your children are at the University. What more? You have nothing to risk. But we young men, we are only just starting our lives.’
The Councillor sighed. ‘Too much guts. That is the trouble with young politicians. They see one cause, one belief, and they stake their whole life on it, regardless of consequences. An older man tempers belief with tact – that’s why he gets through.’
The liberation of his ideas had brought a new and more promising light to his eyes.
‘Dele, you know my son.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, he returns to the University in October. That’s in a few weeks time. He’s occupying a room h
ere. Why doesn’t your friend share the room with him till he leaves, and then he can have the room to himself. And I don’t want any rent from him. If he’s in difficulty about meals, my wife is there to help.’
Sango was overwhelmed by the kindness of the Councillor; but knowing his own irregular hours, he did not see how he could live as part of a family. He was silent enough to compose his thoughts.
‘I don’t know how to begin,’ he said and glanced at Dele.
‘You’re going to accept, of course! The Councillor has been very generous.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Councillor. ‘It is my plan to devote the rest of my life to sacrifice.’
‘I mean —’ Sango said. ‘I – I wanted to say that I cannot accept your offer. I wish I could, but —’
‘As you wish!’ The Councillor waved his arm. ‘You’re under no obligation.’
‘Thank you. I – I hope you win your seat.’
Sango was embarrassed and confused by Dele’s stare of surprise. Once outside he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with air and slowly puffing it out.
‘You surprise me, Sango.’ Dele did not even wait to get out of earshot.
‘It’s simple. I like freedom. Not too much politics. Not too much moral guidance. You know the sort of life I lead. Jazz . . . girls . . . late hours. Odd assignments. Queer visitors at awkward times. I don’t want to be too much under observation. It might change my character completely. At Twenty Molomo it’s not like that.’
‘I can’t understand it,’ Dele said. He tried to smile as he shook hands with Sango, but for once his acting ability failed him. He was sore as a child.
•
Since Bayo could not put through his plan at his own home, he decided to use Sango’s room. He had called in the afternoon and Sango was out looking for a room; and now it was evening, and still Sango was out, which suited him.
‘Come and open the door, please,’ he told Sam. ‘I want to sit down and wait for him . . . by the way, did a man with a black bag call here for me? Like a doctor.’
‘Man with a black bag? I don’ see anybody, sah.’
Very reluctantly, Sam opened the door. Bayo’s hand trembled but he did not let Sam see it. Every time he thought of his get-rich-quick plan, his heart gave a leap of fear. Something might still go wrong. No, the nurse would not double-cross him. He was a reliable fellow.
‘Sam, trust me. I shall steal nothing. I’ll just play some music till my friend comes.’
‘All right, sah. When you want to go, let me know.’
Bayo was impatient. He walked to the corridor, peered outside, came back. He could not sit still for one moment. He thumbed through a magazine, put it down, searched his pockets for cigarettes. There were none. He sat down again.
This could be a very dangerous business. The penicillin racket had made some people and broken others. He wished he had not posed as a doctor. He wished he had not told that old woman that penicillin would cure all her ills. But there was a matter of five guineas to be considered.
There was a knock and a man carrying a leather bag came into the room. He put his raincoat on the arm of a chair and sat facing the door. He was the ‘nurse’ whom Bayo had engaged to administer the drug.
The man said impatiently: ‘Where’s the woman? I thought you said eight-thirty. Well, it’s time.’
‘She’ll soon be here. Give me a cigarette, please.’
‘I don’t trust this place. I don’t know why, but I feel a bit scared.’ The nurse glanced nervously round. ‘Suppose she discovers I’m no nurse, but a quack?’
‘Give me a cigarette.’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘You sound annoyed. Why, now?’
The nurse glanced about the room. At every footfall he rose and went to the door. ‘I thought it was our patient . . .’
‘She’ll be bringing the whole five guineas,’ Bayo said. ‘She’ll give me the money and we’ll split it. You will have —’
‘You will have one pound ten shillings. That’s what we agreed, Bayo.’
‘I’m having two-twelve-six!’ Bayo said, his eyes flaring. ‘But keep quiet. We don’t want Sam to know what we’re doing. If possible too, I don’t want him to know what we’ve done. Sango is very queer. He may disapprove.’
They turned when they heard the knock. Aina’s mother had entered the room. ‘Where is . . . the other man? The one who lives here?’ She sounded disappointed.
‘Do you want the man, or do you want your medicine?’ Bayo asked. ‘Don’t worry about the man who lives here. Me and my friend will attend to you. My friend is a famous nurse.’
She looked about her suspiciously. ‘I was here – once. When Aina fell into trouble.’
‘You . . . must be Aina’s mother? Lord save me!’ Bayo did not like this new turn of events. So this woman knew that Sango lived here, knew perhaps that the racket was against the law. And with the painful plight of her daughter in mind, what could she not scheme?
‘Five guineas, not so?’ She fumbled in her cloth and produced a little envelope. ‘Here is your money.’
Bayo and the nurse exchanged glances. It was the easiest thing ever. Ten cases like this, twenty cases, a hundred . . . and they would be rich. Bayo took the money from her, checked the notes expertly, almost contemptuously.
The woman rose. ‘Excuse me, I’ve just remembered something. I’ll be back just now.’
She was out of the room before they could stop her. Bayo and the nurse again exchanged an uneasy glance. Bayo went to the table, poured himself a glass of water. He raised it to his lips, then stopped. An idea had struck him. Suppose this woman did not return before Sango came back?
And then, by one of those odd things that happen once in a lifetime, Bayo in returning the glass to the table upset it. The water poured on the notes which the woman had given them in payment.
Immediately they became an intense violet. On the back of each note appeared the letters C.I.D.
‘Nurse! We’re finished. Betrayed! The woman has gone to call the police. Look, marked notes. Get your bag and let’s run!’
•
Sango paid off his taxi at Twenty Molomo Street and got in quickly, hoping to rattle off the story of the Apala dance in good time to catch tomorrow’s edition. He felt that he had stumbled on one of the mysteries of the city. This was his chance to catch McMaster’s attention with his handling of the assignment. Two women go to a dance, and while dancing one of them collapses and dies. There is no explanation. She has been in a state of elation before her sudden death. The dance has taken her into a kind of trance and she is foaming at the lips. Why? What is the significance? The more he thought of the woman’s face, her eyes glazed, staring about her unseeing, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, the more terrified he became. Everyone had sat forward, waiting in suspense. They knew she was possessed. Even the drumming had ceased, and yet she continued to dance – without the music. He could never forget it.
The pathologist had said something about the woman ‘at the time of her death . . . undue physical exertion . . . advanced state of myocardial degeneration . . . in the grip of an all-possessing emotion . . .’ or some such jargon, very convenient but still leaving the mystery uncleared.
He glanced at his watch. It was past nine. The story could not possibly get through now for tomorrow’s paper. In the corridor he met Sam carrying a cooking-pot and Sam told him: ‘Your friend Bayo is here. Himself with some strangers. I think C.I.D.’
He stopped, his heart leaping into his mouth. What could he have done? He was no politician, or youth leader. He knocked at his own door and went in. Apart from Bayo, Sango could not say where he had seen the others before. One of them was slender and badly tailored. He had the air of a man on the verge of panic and his fever tended to be contagious. His trousers were greasy and unlined. He showed dirty teeth when he smiled. He held his card and Sango saw he was from the police.
‘We are searching your room.’
Another ma
n, robust, in dark sun-goggles even in the room, looked at his watch.
‘We have found nothing in the room. Now I’m afraid we must search the clothes of the two gentlemen.’
Sango’s heart sank. He saw Bayo close his eyes. The robust policeman patted the bulges on his dress.
‘You’re sure you haven’t got them in your shoes?’
Sango slumped into the nearest seat. He heard the other policeman say, ‘I’ve found something! On the floor!’
He was holding a note marked with the letters C.I.D. ‘Who owns this?’
Bayo opened his eyes.
‘I’ve never seen that before!’
‘I must ask you both to come to the station,’ the stout man said. ‘Nothing much, just formalities.’
‘Sorry about the inconvenience, Amusa . . .’
‘You know my name!’
‘Amusa Sango, crime reporter West African Sensation. The most eligible bachelor along Molomo Street. But take care women don’t land you in trouble.’ He showed his dirty teeth.
They went out.
Sango could not get his grip on things. He knew he must write his report but try as he would he could not concentrate.
Sam came into the room. ‘Lajide is very annoyed with you, sah. He say he never get C.I.D. men in this house since he built it. He and the men talk for long time before they take Bayo away in the 999 van.’
‘Not very good news, Sam; we don’t want anything to annoy Lajide now.’
‘Jus’ so, sah. That Bayo is a bad boy. You better be careful of him, sah. He will put somebody in big trouble.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I will show you somethin’, sah.’
Sam went out and in a moment returned with the cooking-pot which Sango had seen him carrying a moment ago. ‘Master, look what they give me to take to barber and keep. I no meet barber in the shop . . .’
He opened the pot.
‘What!’ exclaimed Sango on seeing the hypodermic syringe and the phials of penicillin. ‘Go and throw that into the lagoon, quick! You want to put us all in prison?’
Carefully Sam wrapped the dangerous goods in paper, threw a cloth over his shoulder and stepped out into the street, whistling.
People of the City Page 6